Yet in some countries the kitchen is also the women’s place of empowerment. It is the place that they provide for their families both physically and emotionally through nourishment.

During my time spent in Honduras I toured home after home where women would proudly bring me into their kitchens and show me what they were preparing for their families that evening. As I walked into each home and treaded across everything from tile floors to dusty dirt floors I saw tables spread with multiple courses and other times pots simply filled with corn and water. I began to notice and document the disparity between these women’s lives that in turn reflected the disparity between socioeconomic classes. Yet, more importantly I gazed into the commonality they shared of family, love and generosity. There I found that the portion on the plate was irrelevant to the content of the heart.

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The Cape May Brewing Company in Cape May New Jersey was one of the only breweries that showed up on my search for beach breweries at the Jersey Shore. I recommend anyone stop in any day of the week between 12 and eight, slap down $11, try out a generous sampling of four beers, get a tour and take home a pint or “can-styled” glass. The people are friendly, the beer is good and they even make a mean root bier that will bring a smile to tiny tike, prohibitionist, or run of the mill designated driver.

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I’ve done stories on the Punk Rock Flea Market before, but this year, as a vendor, I was wedged between tables for the duration of the day. However, that didn’t mean I could capture the day with all its beautiful faces.

I love PRFM for its diversity in cast characters and wares (For instance, I was seated next to a woman that made jewelry out of lab rats. In all honesty, they were some pretty great pieces.). As I sat behind my table face after face passed by and eventually I just couldn’t let them keep passing with out asking to share their beauty with everyone else. Albeit startled (Why does the crazy woman with a camera want to take our picture?), they all obliged.

Enjoy these faces and I really hope to see you at the next PRFM in December. You will undoubtedly find some amazing and unique Christmas gifts. Be sure to stop by my table and say “Hi!.”.

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A couple Thursdays ago I found myself at Warren Wilson College outside of Asheville, North Carolina. Most wedding receptions involve a DJ and an open bar, but unimpressed by conventional standards my best friend, Andy Beth, longed to Contra Dance just as she had before she moved to Hawaii. So after the nuptials were said, the entire wedding party caravaned to this campus, walked through the doors of the gym, paid our $7 and waited with anticipation to see what could possibly come next.

A hundred plus people from all age groups and genres milled about – men with long hair, women with short hair, men in kilts, or tie dye, some with bandanas around their heads to catch the impending sweat. Some women wore yoga pants anticipating the immense energy about to be expended and other wore beautiful dresses – all free flowing and unrestricting, designed to bloom with all the pomp of a gladiola when the girls were spun around and around.

One man with a fiddle, one man with a guitar and one “caller” stood on the stage. As they improvised one rousing Appalachian country song after another the caller would proclaim a two or three word instruction like, “Women: Gypsy!” or “Men: Allemande!”. Each song began a new dance and each dance had it’s own set of choreography, but all the choreography was based off of the same repertoire of ten to twenty moves that were amazingly simplistic and repetitive. So anyone could catch on – even a novice like myself.

Imagine every nineteenth century period piece movie, with a dance scene, you’ve ever seen. Now, Imagine a hoedown. Mix the two together: Contra Dance. I’ve set the scene for you. I’ve explained technically what it is. Yet, what it means to me – how it made me feel is it’s own entity. It is nearly impossible to stay afloat amid the romance of it all. The dances are designed in a way that you begin with your partner, in a line and then throughout the dance you are choreographically parting with your partner, moving to another partner down the line, but always coming back to the one you started with, over and over again. I was certain, as I was twirled about from person to person that I danced with every last one of them (woman and man) at least once. How can people avoid falling in love steeped in this brew of romanticism? I wanted everyone to fall in love this way: accepting to take a dance with a stranger and clinging to the pieces of themselves they share in between being tossed between themselves and everyone else, but always coming back to each other.

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Once again, there’s little more I can offer that the smiles on these faces and bright vibrant colors can’t. Enjoy a peek at the intimate fanfare and I know you’ll immediately feel like you’re in on the conversation.

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This was my first poetic stop outside of the Philadelphia scene. Philadelphia is an extreme example of a melting pot of verse and experience. So, I was eager to try on this small town open mic night to see what it would offer to an out of towner.

My apprehensions perked a bit when the first poet stood and delivered an attempt at a poem, but fell short by simply sketching a verbal outline around some thoughts. Yet, every single poet that followed offered something compelling and provocative. The gem of that night stood out when I digested the greatest meditation on life in the college town (Texas A&M resides in the next town over.). She offered beautiful word portrait to the effect of: ‘In this town we bleed maroon and paint our houses white.’ Though you may never live in a college town in the deep south, I’d bet the themes of fear of mediocrity and conformity are not lost on you. Thus, the message transcends.

This single truth resonates for me: poetry is a microcosmic expression of the culture and environment it finds itself in. However, It is always a reflection of the human condition: struggle,growth, regression, life, death, love,etc. So, no matter where you go, the struggle may be greater or lesser or it may be a different kind of struggle, or love or death, but the same, essential components are always there.

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These prints are available for purchase as an 8×10 for $25 each.

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Austin is a party on a Thursday afternoon. It’s a warm stroll having touched down from a chilly town far, far away. It’s a pirate greeting you at the threshold of a bar, but not a Disney World/Pirates of the Carribean kind of pirate, but an ironic one, as only Austin could produce. He’s just dedicated enough to the role to grow an outlandish beard and riddle his body with tattoos, don a pirate tee-shirt (think tuxedo tee-shirt, but a pirate.), but not serious enough to run an attraction at any major theme park…thank God. Austin is that same pirate insisting you pop in and the first round’s on him. It’s the subsequent and inevitable rounds you gladly pay for after, because the fun colonizes. It’s the music pulsing your ears at all times. It’s the strangers that fast become friends for just that moment in time. You hop in a photo booth together. You share a shot. You talk sports. You hop on the bar and dance and suddenly, it is over. The clock has struck midnight. The bar is a pumpkin and you must move on, but the ball – the brief snippet of time where chaos and kindred spirits collided; that was Austin.

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